


stripped down to our skeletons

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belly Rubs, Brotherly Affection, Canon Compliant, Crying, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Gen, Guilty Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Sam-Centric, Self-Esteem Issues, Sickfic, Touch-Starved, Vomiting, Withdrawal, could you call sam's detox a withdrawal? i think so, it's definitely messy enough to be one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things, Sam supposed, never changed. No matter how hard he tried to be better, to be <em>good, </em> they would always end up here.</p><p>Or: How Dean <em>should</em> have handled Sam's demon blood detox, because locking up a struggling addict alone in a room is not the way to do things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stripped down to our skeletons

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gross and terrible. we all know this  
> i have nothing to say for myself other than the fact that sam's demon blood detox(es) were a) some good shit, and b) not handled well by anybody, and i'd like someone to take care of sam. because he's just a boy.  
> okay maybe not anymore he is very much a man at this point but back in season 4 he was still a child  
> this is kind of different, style-wise, compared to what my fics are normally like, but i think it's worked out well. yea.  
> i'm done  
> beta'd. amazing  
> title is from "Twin Skeletons (Hotel in NYC)" by FoB

He liked to think that if he’d known how badly this was going to turn out, he wouldn’t have gone through with it. But he knew himself better than that; he’d have done it if it meant splitting down the middle, if it meant dying, if it meant forgoing any humanity he had in his diseased soul.

The latter had nearly happened, actually, and the second thing was an easy possibility if he was able to die from shame.

The pain, compared to everything else, was nothing.

A part of him wished Dean would leave. He felt just about as horrible as a person could feel, but the humiliation that stemmed from Dean watching him sweat and shake and vomit made everything so much worse.

The rest of him realized what kind of hell it would be to go through this alone.

Each time his stomach seized up and had him retching into the metal bucket next to the bed, Dean would be there, holding his head over the rim and telling him things he knew were lies.

_It’s okay, this’ll pass, you’ll be okay._

The one that drew tears from his eyes: _I’m here, little brother. I’m not gonna leave you, I promise._

He might as well have been in a confessional for the amount of times he begged for Dean’s forgiveness, for all the _I’m sorry’s_ and _I didn’t mean to’s_ and _Why do you love me’s_. Dean wasn’t a priest, but he had the patience of one, and he let Sam plead over and over again. 

If he’d been asked, Sam would say he didn’t give a shit about angels or God anymore. He was dirty, plain and simple, and if God was around to pay attention, there was no doubt in Sam’s mind that God knew how dirty he was. He wasn’t going to waste his time praying for absolution from something that had never cared about him or his family.

As far as Sam was concerned, Dean was all that mattered. However deep he was drowning in sin, however much God hated him, he would be okay as long as Dean still loved him. He _needed_ Dean to still love him, to prove that he was worth loving. Everyone else who’d loved him had gone away, and more often than not, it had been his fault.

 _My fault,_ he managed between chattering teeth as his body was wracked with chills. _All m-my fault._

Dean draped a pilling wool blanket over Sam’s shoulders, pulled it tight. _Just try to get warm, baby boy._

Dean only left the room for a few minutes at a time to talk with Bobby in hushed whispers on the other side of the door, too quiet for Sam to make out. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend things weren’t so complicated; he was a kid again, just twelve years old and laid up in a motel bed with some wicked virus, and it was Dean and John outside—a Dean that hadn’t seen Hell and a John that knew how to take care of his boys.

Mary would be there, too, if it was perfect. Strong and beautiful and radiating light, and she had Dean’s eyes and Sam’s smile, and she would sing him to sleep.

Pretending didn’t get him anywhere. All it did was make him sad.

He’d rather the pain stay constant instead of these dips on his internal scale, when the agony leveled out enough for him to start thinking. If he’d been a little stronger, if he’d been able to control himself, if he hadn’t been so weak in the face of a vice…

If he hadn’t been such a disappointment from the get-go, maybe it would have worked out.

Dean had sacrificed himself for him, and what Dean had gotten in return was a broken mess of a little brother. Sam should have been looking after Dean, not the other way around, and yet here they were: Sam royally screwing up like he always did, sicker than he’d ever been, and Dean falling into the position of a caretaker. Some things, Sam supposed, never changed. No matter how hard he tried to be better, to be _good,_ they would always end up here.

 

_Please, Sammy, I don’t wanna have to do this._

He couldn’t stand the thought of swallowing anything, even as benign as water, but he was physically drained and couldn’t fight back as Dean pinched his nose shut. Sam fought the urge to open his mouth and breathe until spots appeared in his vision, and he gasped in a lungful of air. Dean, to his credit, let Sam have a moment to catch his breath, but then he was tipping Sam’s head back and pressing a cup of water to Sam’s lips.

 _That’s it, you’re okay,_ Dean murmured, keeping a hold on Sam’s nose with one hand and stroking down the length of Sam’s throat with the other, triggering the reflex to swallow. _You gotta stay hydrated, or else it’ll get worse._

He coughed a little, some of the water trickling out the corners of his mouth, but the rest of it went down.

_Holy water?_

_Nah, got it from the tap. Didn’t wanna risk burning your stomach. This sucks enough as it is._

Oh. Right. Of course his organs would burn if he drank holy water. He’s wrecked on the inside.

Later on he would chalk it up to a symptom of the detox, but his eyes began to tear up.

 _No, no, hey—_ Dean took a seat next to Sam on the bed and drew his thumbs through the wetness that was collecting under Sam’s lashes. _You’re fine, Sammy, you’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna take care of you and you’re gonna get better, and this’ll all be behind us before you know it._ He ran his fingers through Sam’s hair, gently unknotting the tangles. _Okay? Please, you-- you gotta believe me._

Sam forced himself to nod and laid his head against Dean’s shoulder.

 _Dean._ His voice caught and he trembled with the effort it took to hold himself together. _I—I can’t…_

_I know, I know. Let it go, baby boy, I’ve got you, I’m right here with you._

Sam shook in Dean’s arms, sweating out his fever, listening to the steady thrum of Dean’s heartbeat and trying his damndest to match it.

 

At some point, between being force-fed water and his most recent bout of chills, his stomach seemed to have pulled out a white flag and succumbed to the god-awful cramps currently assaulting his insides. It triggered the nausea to come back, too, but he was too spent to throw up; all the muscles that made that happen were worn down and aching. He’d tried to let himself be sick, had hung his head over the side of the bed and let the feeling build and build, but all he’d managed to do was gag and spit.

Dean came back right as Sam was sticking a finger down his throat.

_Jesus shit, Sam—_

Sam didn’t see Dean move. He'd been at the door and then he was right there, pulling Sam’s fingers from his mouth and holding his head up over the bucket. _Don’t make yourself puke, man. If you gotta, then you will. Just breathe._

Sam rolled onto his side, pulling his knees up to his chest and curling in on himself, sweat beading on his face and panting through the relentless pain.

_Maybe you gotta, you know, go the other way?_

Sam fought a groan, shook his head, and regretted the movement when it triggered a wave of vertigo. _Too high up—the pain, it’s…_

He screwed his eyes shut and swallowed, embarrassment surging in his chest when a desperate, pathetic noise slipped past his mouth.

 _Alright, alright, take it easy._ Dean’s hand came around to cup the side of Sam’s head, tucking the loose strands of hair behind Sam’s ear. _You’re okay._

Sam bunched up tighter, not wanting Dean to see or touch him because he knew how disappointed Dean was, how heartbroken.

_I’m—I’m sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t—_

_Couldn’t what?_

_Couldn’t fix it… wasn’t strong enough._ A particularly sharp cramp gripped him and he bit down on a gasp. _I tried so hard to—to be good, and—all I did was screw everything up, I’m sorry…_

He heard Dean sigh, but it wasn’t exasperated or tired.

_You didn’t know._

That’s all that could be said, really; not _it’s okay_ or _everybody screws up,_ because it wasn’t okay and this was much more than a mistake. This had been a choice.

There were a few beats of silence, nothing but Sam’s harsh and labored breaths to break it up, and then Dean was on his feet and rounding the other side of the bed.

_Scoot over, will ya?_

Sam did as he was told; after going behind Dean’s back so many times, he figured Dean had earned a little obedience.

He felt the sink of the mattress as Dean lay down behind him, clenching his teeth around a moan when the movement churned his stomach and had it gurgling emptily.

 _Gotta get some food in you soon._ Dean’s voice was soft, soothing.

 _I’ll just throw it up._ As if on cue, Sam’s gut did a nauseating flip, and he pressed a hand to his mouth. _N-no, fuck, ‘m gonna—_

 _Breathe._ Dean’s hand rubbed up and down Sam’s arm, keeping him steady. _You’re not gonna hurl, man. Just take a breath._

After a couple terrifying seconds of waiting for himself to vomit and then rocking forward with a cross between a hiccup and a belch, it all died back down into the rest of the steady agony.

_See? I told you. Now stretch out for me._

Sam couldn’t hold back the whimper this time. _Can’t—h-hurts when I move._

_You can. Trust me._

It took some maneuvering, because Sam was coiled as tight as a jump spring and Dean had to pry Sam’s fingers away from his midsection one by one; but with quiet murmurs of reassurance from Dean, and slow adjustments that allowed Sam to breathe in between them, he was eventually unfolded all the way. At his full height, his bare feet knocked against the metal frame at the bottom of the bed.

_I’m gonna touch your belly, okay? Just like when we were younger and you were sick._

_D-don’t, don’t touch me, **please**. _ They were past the point where Sam had enough dignity not to beg. They’d passed that point a long time ago. _Don’t want you to, don’t want you to even look at me._

_You got nothing to be ashamed about._

_Stop,_ he croaked, _stop, you don’t get to say that._

_Sam, listen to me._

The sudden firmness in Dean’s tone had Sam falling silent.

_You fucked up. You lied to me, you snuck around and you made some real shitty choices. And that pissed me off, don't get me wrong. But right here, right now? You’re being so strong, and I am so proud of you._

Sam sucked in a shaky breath and blinked through the tears clouding his vision.

_You know who else could get through something like this, Sam? Nobody._

_You,_ Sam objected, _you could._

 _No, I really couldn’t._ Dean felt Sam’s forehead, checking for a fever they both knew was there. _That’s not the point, anyways. What I’m saying is… you don’t have to hide from me. Just let me do my job; let me take care of you._

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat. _Okay._

Dean settled in closer to him, pressing his chest flush against Sam’s back, and draped an arm over Sam’s side. His palm spread flat on Sam’s stomach and began to make little clockwise circles in Sam’s skin. At first it made the cramping worse, and Sam keened, low and panicked, arching his back.

 _Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay._ Dean brought his hand to Sam’s chest, holding him there until Sam relaxed again. _It’s gonna help._

Dean resumed putting pressure on Sam’s stomach, and Sam trembled as he tried not to push Dean away. He turned his head into the pillow, drawing deep rattling breaths to counteract the sharp twists and knots.

_Hate seeing you like this, Sammy._

_I’m sorry._

_You can’t help it, don’t apologize._

The effect wasn’t instantaneous, but the warmth from Dean’s body and the slow methodical motions of his hand gradually began loosening the tension in Sam’s belly, taking the edge off the pain. Sam was drenched and sticky with sweat from all the energy his body had exerted, but now he found himself caving into the relief he’d been granted. The ache was manageable now, dull enough to ignore. And being held so gently, Dean keeping him tucked under his chin… everything else faded into the background; the old mattress springs, the quiet sweep of the ceiling fan above him, the need for filthy copper on his tongue, everything. It didn’t seem so uncontrollable or inevitable or insane anymore. He could manage it, and it was only because he wasn’t alone.

He didn’t have the words or the strength to say those things, and he hoped Dean knew it already.

 _Why don’t you hate me?_ Sam heard the break in his words and prayed Dean wouldn't draw attention to it.

_Sammy…_

_I just—I don’t understand how you don’t—_ Sam’s breath hitched and he was crying for real this time, no aborted tears that he could blink through. They ran hot and wet off the bridge of his nose, dripped onto the sheets.

Dean pulled him closer, lending Sam more of his body heat, and pressed kisses to the crown of Sam’s head.

_I could never hate you, baby boy._

Sam choked on a sob and bit down on his lower lip.

 _Shh, shh, you don’t gotta cry._ Dean had shifted his hand up to Sam’s chest, rubbing back and forth over Sam’s sternum in an attempt to calm him down. _Take a minute to settle. Don’t wanna make yourself sick all over again, right? Breathe, like how I’m doing. Feel that?_

Sam found the rhythm in the rise and fall of Dean’s chest, let it guide his own pulse, and the frantic urge to cry dissipated.

He had no concept of time, but it didn’t feel very long before he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

 _Stay with me,_ he mumbled, _even after…_

_I’m not going anywhere, don’t you worry._

They both fell asleep like that, breathing in sync and curled around each other in a tangle of limbs and heartbeats.

**Author's Note:**

> _And I just need enough of you to dull the pain_   
>  _Just to get me through the night 'til we're twins again_   
>  _'Till we're stripped down to our skeletons again_   
>  _'Till we're saints just swimming in our sins again_


End file.
